


Molasses Afternoon

by lily_winterwood



Series: Born to Make (Art) History - Promo Telephone Game [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Frottage, M/M, Nude Modeling, Roommates, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 02:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17275355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: Viktor’s fingers curl into the dark bedspread by Yuuri’s head: tattoo imprints of his touch against Yuuri’s side. He grinds down, and Yuuri opens up beneath him with a shuddering breath.“My love,” breathes Viktor against his skin, his voice more soft and reverent than a penitent at church. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamt of this?”





	Molasses Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Born to Make (Art) History Telephone Game! The theme started as "starry night". I was after roadhouss, who drew an amazing picture here (currently a placeholder).

It’s a molasses afternoon: an indolent golden hour in a countryside bedroom, where the amber sunlight casts crosses of mullioned shadows against the opposite wall from the bed.

And what a tiny bed it is, when it’s shared between the two of them — Viktor a hungry, pale sliver of light, nosing against the crook of Yuuri’s neck, Yuuri a quiet, gasping trickle of noises under the model’s wandering lips. Viktor’s fingers curl into the dark bedspread by Yuuri’s head: tattoo imprints of his touch against Yuuri’s side. He grinds down, and Yuuri opens up beneath him with a shuddering breath.

“ _My love_ ,” breathes Viktor against his skin, his voice more soft and reverent than a penitent at church. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamt of this?”

Yuuri doesn’t, but he has an inkling of it, tucked somewhere far from his current cognisance, wrapped in the remnants of his clothes discarded at the foot of his easel. He thinks, briefly, of all the light that’s going to waste, but then Viktor’s mouth finds the spot on his neck just by his pulse point, and nothing else in the universe seems to matter half as much as that.

He had entertained, once or twice, the idea that the silver-haired model who’d shown up on his doorstep in answer to his advertisement for a flatmate could ever look at him this way. Could ever turn the desiring gaze back on the artist, could ever look past the canvas and the easel and see the way Yuuri’s cheeks would flush as he sketches and paints him. Even at the start of their arrangement, Viktor was an odd man. He came from money, that was evident from the press of his clothes and the housekeeper he retained almost immediately upon move-in. He even regularly purchased Yuuri’s paintings and sent them out to his friend’s salon in the city.

And yet he would willingly disrobe for Yuuri, remaining perfectly still in the sheets as Yuuri tries — and struggles — to render him in mere lines and shapes. It’s in these moments when Yuuri wonders if lines and shapes could ever possibly capture Viktor’s entire being.

Then, this afternoon.

Viktor’s mouth moves lower now, sucking blooms of black and blue into Yuuri’s collar. The bed creaks beneath his movements as he shifts onto his hands and knees, straddling Yuuri’s knees. His lips contains secrets, Yuuri knows, which he kisses into a line down Yuuri’s sternum, tucks into the spaces between his ribs.

There’s nowhere in the world Yuuri would rather be. The sunlight halos against Viktor’s hair in dazzling gold, sparkles against his skin as he hovers above Yuuri, one hand travelling down to brush against Yuuri’s length. Yuuri gasps, his hands coming up to cup Viktor’s face, tugging him up for another kiss. Their hips press together, the remnants of Yuuri’s briefs sliding down his thighs with every move. His hands slide down to Viktor’s shoulders, digging into his skin.

“Viktor,” he whispers. Viktor hums against his lips, his fingers stroking slow and sweet below. There’s no rush in his wrists, in the smooth movement of their bodies. The afternoon light deepens into honey, burnishes the curve of Viktor’s back as he whispers sweet words in an unfamiliar tongue against Yuuri’s collar. Yuuri presses their hips closer, stifling a moan against the side of Viktor’s head. The smell of them together — of Viktor’s soap, the sweat along the curve of his back, the crisp linen of the sheets — it floods him entirely, mingling with the heat between their bodies.

Yuuri’s afraid to close his eyes. He wants to memorise this moment, preserve the texture of Viktor’s skin under his fingertips, the contours of his face in his hands. His thumbs caress Viktor’s cheeks, before dragging lightly down his nape, along his shoulders. As Viktor’s hands continue to stroke him, Yuuri sinks harder against the coverlets, arching up into his touch with a soft whimper.

Slowly, they chase the edge together, Yuuri’s fingers finally coming down to return Viktor’s touches. The model is so beautiful in this moment, as the honeyed light deepens further into rose and indigo. His eyes are enigmatic as he exhales against Yuuri’s lips.

“More,” he murmurs, reverent but needy. Yuuri obliges, kissing him briefly before he rolls them over and straddles Viktor’s hips, grinding down rhythmically while entwining their fingers to raise them over Viktor’s head. The pace is still gentle, but less slow than before — the molasses thins a little, starts to warm. Viktor’s moan is just as sweet.

“More,” he begs again, cheeks flushed rose-gold in the late afternoon light. Yuuri wants to gild the sunset into his skin, wants to capture him bare against the flowers in the garden, wants to paint him so perfectly that everyone in the future will remember the ineffable glint in Viktor’s eyes and the sleekness of his musculature. _Adonis Sleeping_ , it’d be called. Or _Eros in the Afternoon, Among the Flowers_.

He gives Viktor more. He gives him all that he can, their fingers entwined and their hips pressed together. Viktor’s breathing grows more ragged with each passing minute; his face flushes bright and exhilarated as his body tenses for release.

In the moment when Viktor comes, Yuuri swears he has never seen anything quite so exquisite. The way his face goes slack with ecstasy, the way he pushes up for Yuuri’s kiss — Yuuri loses himself in it, kissing Viktor back with sweet desperation as he follows him over the edge.

The light slowly dims outside the window; the shadows slowly lengthen across the floor of their bedroom. They lie entwined for a long while after, wrapped in the sheets and one another, and Yuuri thinks of all the things he could draw to preserve this moment: Viktor, nude and sleeping, his hair tossed across his handsome features; or Viktor, spread and sprawled, the brush following the erotic line of his throat onto the pillow.

Viktor. Yuuri has wanted this — wanted him — for longer than he himself realises.

“What are you thinking about?” Viktor wonders from beside him, as the velvet fingers of dusk creep across their bed. Yuuri reaches out and cups his cheek, the want rising inside him again with every languid touch. Slowly, he shifts up to kiss him, thumb stroking against his cheekbones, eyes closing as he tries to commit this picture to memory.

“ _My love_ ,” he murmurs, breathing the words against Viktor’s lips, “I’ve dreamt of you since dreaming began.”

**Author's Note:**

> See more of the telephone game [here](https://twitter.com/i/moments/1083440497740271616)!


End file.
